Problematic Shoulder Touches
by Ardently Indeed
Summary: LBD Universe. Post Episode 83. Lizzie calls Charlotte with a startling revelation, Charlotte drops some wisdom, and Lizzie spends the remainder of her evening sorting out confounded, confused emotions by way of old videos, cynicism, and vodka. Rated T for language.


**Set after Ep. 83. I'll be honest, I haven't kept track of where Charlotte is in the LBD universe right now, so let's pretend she is currently capable of answering quick phone calls. This story features its own drinking game called Find The Typos. Go easy on yourselves. **

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"Shit."

"What?"

"He's actually in love with me."

"Ya _think?" _

"Charlotte! Fuck, he's in love with me!"

"You've known this for three months, why are you just now freaking about it?"

"I mean, he _told _me he loved me, I didn't think he actually… _shit!_"

"What sparked this, if I might ask?"

"The mock interview I tried to do, that video?"

"Yes, that video."

"He's in love with me!"

"Any dignified businessman who succumbs to wearing a polyester afro is obviously in love."

"No, no, not that bit, the bit with the shoulder touching!"

"What about it?"

"_Why didn't you tell me?"_

"That he's in love with you? You knew that he was in love with you. At least before you refused him with an aggressive flourish on the internet for all to see."

"Char, having someone you don't know very well who isn't at all congenial towards you tell you he loves you is _quite different _from seeing William Darcy's face shift when I only put my fucking hand on his shoulder!"

"Imagine if you hugged him."

"_Charlotte! No! Not the time!_"

"Elizabeth Bennet, calm down."

"What do I do?"

"You take a deep breath and get your shit together because he loved you before now and he loves you right now and nothing has changed."

"But Char-"

"I don't see what the problem is, just keep acting the way you've been acting."

"But I'm already not acting the way I was acting!"

"Yeah, I noticed, Little Miss Flirt."

"What if he gets the wrong idea?"

"About your level of interest?"

"Yes!"

"_Is _he getting the wrong idea, Lizzie?"

Lizzie blinked, gripped the sides of her cardigan harder in her fist. Her phone was too hot against her cheek.

"Yes."

"She says with conviction. Lizzie Bennet, the man is in love with you and is showing no signs of a hasty recovery, so what you really need to figure out is whether or not you want to encourage him because you feel a little something yourself or if you want to make sure he knows you're not interested because stringing him along now that you actually have some idea of his feelings is just cruel. So, again, get your shit together. I have a conference with Ricky and potential investors in four minutes, so you're on your own. I'll see you in a few weeks. Bye."

"Bye," Lizzie sighed into her phone before tossing it on the other side of her bed and collapsing. She chewed her thumbnail, rubbed her ankles together, but she was up and at her laptop in a moment anyway, replaying for the umpteenth time her interview with Darcy. The first half, at least. All that costume theater remained funny, and she thought he might have noticed when she almost said _you _instead of _my mother _when she spoke of her weakness in bias. But the real meat of the issue, her real concern, was the two seconds in which all humor and pride and spark melted from Darcy's face when her hand graced his shoulder.

She froze the shot as her fingers left him.

"His jacket's too small," she mumbled into her fist as she leaned back to stare at the image. Seeing him onscreen was so strange. His bulk was diminished, the imposing breadth of his shoulders relegated to however many pixels. And his voice lost a level of depth, some shred of low vibrato that caught the respectful attention of employees, acquaintances, middle Bennet sisters.

Damn his imperfect hair. Damn those wide arms. Damn his one arching eyebrow and his tie that could be loosened without too much effort and that expression on his not-smug, not-snotty, not-infuriating face. Lizzie closed her eyes tight and rubbed her temples, but when she opened them again, that new strain between her lungs was still there.

"Shit."

He wasn't even looking at the camera, wasn't looking anywhere at all. What was that expression? She squinted at the screen, as if that would actually reveal any answers. Disbelief? Affection? _Whatwhatwhat?_

He wasn't even smiling. _No expression at all,_ she decided. _That's that, move on._ She exited out of the window, sighed, slapped her hands down on her knees to launch herself up. Then reloaded the video to watch those two seconds again.

If his face was completely blank why did that expression make her feel – warmer? Was that it? That twisting that pressed through her back and her ribs and made her shift in her seat – how could a blank face launch that kind of feeling in a girl?

This girl. Lizzie Bennet.

Longing, maybe. Longing seeped into his still features as her fingers lifted from his jacket. And as she acknowledged this, she found longing in her own gut, longing to see how his expression might change if she touched his hand. Or a bare arm. Maybe even his cheek.

"_Shit!"_

She stood, knocking a few papers from her desk to the floor, and stomped to the kitchen, rifled through the cabinet over the fridge. When she came back to the computer with pretzels, Nutella, and a half full bottle of Smirnoff under her arm, she collapsed into her chair and played, for the first time in nearly three months, the video of his confession. And it made her angry.

She tossed back a shot.

"Dick," she snorted, but the moment the syllable found air, she felt terrible. He wasn't a dick. Maybe a little bit then, but not now. And nothing he said that day in Collins and Collins about her family was unmatched by her own animosity.

When she started to defend George, she dropped her head to the table and fought tears.

Saturday had been perfect. Gigi was sweet and Darcy was a gentleman and San Francisco was stunning. And here she was now, finally understanding, not just knowing, that Darcy loved her, and she couldn't decide if that thrilled or frightened her.

Maybe both.

Back to the two second shoulder touch. She watched on, though, watched him talk about his company with unveiled affection.

Panic spread through her veins as she realized she wanted him to talk about her with that affection. She shut her computer off, chugged some Smirnoff, retreated to the soft expanse of her bed.

Grabbing her phone, she flipped through her contacts, found the name she'd never had occasion to call.

"William Darcy," she said into the unbiased silence of her room. His eyes in those two seconds were so tender. She imagined those eyes, coupled with a smile, looking down at her. His hand on the small of her back, perhaps. Her arms closing the space between them.

"William Darcy." Weeks left at Pemberley, weeks to make jokes and trade smiles and spend light hours with him. And she didn't hate the way he looked at her, took the time to notice the way he looked at her.

"William," she sighed, rolling on her back with a furrowed brow to try to imagine them standing together, holding hands, posture easy. The image came fast. And then the sweet images were past, and she imagined white teeth on earlobes and warm hands on thighs. And listening to heartbeats the next morning while the smell of coffee drenched sore bodies.

"Will." She closed her eyes, gripped her phone, exhaled. It could be easy. It could be sweet. She didn't have to discourage his attentions and she didn't have to prevent her own.

Her eyes flew open. She tossed the phone aside.

"Shit."

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**Review if you'd like to see more like this! Sorry that I'm pretty much a oneshot kind of author, but c'est la vie, chere. Carry on.**

My heart is going to break for Lydia when shit hits the fan.


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